Here I am

"I found your old diary."

My mom was visiting me for my birthday, sharing girl talk and gourmet food with me to ring in my 22nd year.

"Um, what?"

Apparently, I'd given my childhood diary -- with Simba emblazoned on the front, I might add -- to my mom a long time ago. Oh, the silly choices that a high school girl will make in order to have more room for make-up in an old desk drawer... My mom laughed as she recalled what she'd found when she carefully turned the pages, which were stiff with glue from movie tickets and restaurant napkin rings that I'd pasted in as mementos.

Basically, every year, I wrote one entry. "Dear Diary, I am so sorry that I haven't written in you in sooo long," I would begin. Each entry was a time capsule, a seven-, eight-, or nine-year-old's idea of a year in review. I shared about the boys I liked at the moment, the classes I'd loved, and the adventures I'd had, promising to write again soon... only to fail miserably. Reportedly, one year, I even offered to name my diary, like a teenage boy naming his first car, hoping that personification might help to guilt me into logging my secrets more often.

I promise not to name my blog. And I promise not to offer any lame excuses about why all was quiet on the western front here this summer. I'm not even going to apologize.

You see, every time a friend or family member asked me why I hadn't blogged in a while this summer, I lamented that nothing exciting had happened to me. "What would I write about? I just sit at a desk all day," I constantly insisted. This is true. I did, in fact, slouch in front of a computer screen all summer. My summer internship taught me a lot. I know now that I need windows -- or, at least, that SAD can strike in the summer if you're inside all day. I know now that my hunch about not having the stomach for hard news was right-on. Telling tough stories is important; reporting on gut-wrenching crimes has its purpose. But it's not for me. I need joy. I need interaction.

I needed to learn about new media in a less sedentary, more innovative way. And grad school has granted me that opportunity. There is life beyond my computer screen, and experiencing it doesn't have to mean choosing a new career. It just means that I have to listen to my gut. I am a great reporter. I have a weirdly fierce love for women's lifestyle magazines. And I need to hold strong to that.

Or, as Mufasa would say, I just need to remember who I am.

I cherish my loved ones more than words can express. I bake when I'm stressed; I make a mean batch of cookies. I did, in fact, do a lot of cool things this summer -- sometimes even in the vicinity of my poorly-lit office. I love a good story, and I think everyone has one. I'm a New Yorker. I'm a daughter. I'm a friend. I'm a perfectionist. I'm a writer. I live every day with the goal of learning something new, and laughing along the way. I couldn't be prouder to be part of the young Jewish community. I believe in love. I believe in the power of my pen (or my keyboard?). I believe in beauty, and music, and prayer, and peace. My name is Rachel Liane Slaff, and this is next chapter of my life.

A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song. - Joan Anglund

Take care

"I don't care. Sorry, I just don't care!"

My best friend turned towards me, laughing, and asked, "Who are you, and what have you done with Rachel?"

You see, I always care. I care too much, in fact. I'm an ESFJ, in Myers-Briggs speak. I am always the hostess: I cook too much food, and I make you take home leftovers. I'm a fabulous Jewish mother-in-training. I claim to find good in even the nastiest of people; I get upset when everyone isn't able to get along and sing songs around the metaphorical campfire. I'm a social justice nerd, one of those freaks who actually believes that she can change the world. If nothing else, I care.

But, senioritis has officially kicked in. I have 3 weeks left. I am 4 assignments away from graduation. I only have 3 more Shabboses left at Hillel. I have 10 classes between me, and my cap and gown -- and I intend to make them count. I am going to pass all of my classes, so I officially don't care about trivial homework. I am leaving the cliques of this undergraduate community behind, so I truly don't have the patience for tangled red tape anymore. If a program doesn't succeed, or a class is boring, it's honestly no skin off my back.

Because -- actually -- I care very much about making these last moments count. I refuse to spend them fretting over event planning, he-said-she-said nonsense, or grades that won't matter 10 months from now. I care about cherishing this time with my friends. I care about carving these moments into my brain, so I'll have something great to tell my grandchildren someday. I care about making this second count. I care about my loved ones, about my friendships, and my dreams for the future. I care about the good times I've had, not the drama of days gone by; I care about the places we're going, not the mistakes we've made. I care about girls night out, and dinner in with friends, and sitting in the fountain at Washington Square Park. I care. I just don't have time to care unless it counts right now.

twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. so throw off the bowlines. sail away from the safe harbor. catch the trade winds in your sails. explore. dream. discover. --unknown

and, of course, care.

Whose line is it, anyway?

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts...

I went to see As You Like It with N last night. I'd read the play back in high school; I remembered that it was funny, and that it was a love story. I'd forgotten its complexities, and I'd never really experienced its humanity. (There is, as my Comedies professor often chides my classmates and me, a difference between reading a play and seeing one.)

It was more than a love story - at least, it far exceeded the sappy and somewhat predictable norm of today's romantic comedies. Sitting in the audience, I was watching people change. These characters were falling in love, of course, but they were deepening family ties, establishing friendships, and figuring out their personal identities along the way. The characters matured on stage; they grew up and lived happily ever after in five whirlwind acts.

As Jaques presented her famous monologue about the cycles of life, I couldn't help but wonder - what act of life am I in? And am I ever going to get a script?

In other news, the tree outside my window is blooming. I love springtime in New York.

Trusting your gut

After a long, snowy winter, I heard the ice cream truck boo-bee-dee-boop its way down the block the other day -- and I instinctively scrambled for quarters. I didn't end up getting my Firecracker pop, but I knew exactly what to do.

I made pesto sauce from scratch yesterday, based on a whole lot of guessing and praying, and that turned out well, too. I'm starting to realize that I have enough of my mother in me to be able to cook instinctively. Should I add more olive oil? Probably. Will a little cream cheese brighten up that sauce? You betcha. I know what to do, even if I have trouble trusting my inner Betty Crocker at times.

Some things, I think, are just automatic: cookies need milk; kites gotta have breezes; don't wear white after Labor Day. My best friends and I went to a showtunes-only piano bar in the West Village this past weekend; I know that when I'm with them, there's a 95% chance I'll laugh so hard that my beverage'll shoot out of my nostrils. (This is, apparently, genetic in my family. Thanks to my aunt for passing on this darling propensity to snort liquids out of my nose. Totally chic.) Before you eat birthday cake, you blow out the candles. Before babies can walk, they have to learn to crawl. I've heard that you never forget how to ride a bicycle once you've learned, either. Some things...some things you just know.

I should have known, then, that senioritis would come knocking at my door. I'm not being an extraordinary procrastinator - I just can't sleep very well lately. My brain is whirring through thoughts and ideas and dreams at a hundred-bajillion miles per hour. There's too many banquets, and projects, and parties to look forward to! Spring is coming, and with it comes the end of my year-long thesis project and the conclusion of four years of workworkwork. Daffodils will be blooming soon, and I'll have heard about graduate school and decided on my summer plans and settled into a post-coed life.

I've been working towards these next few weeks for the past four years. I'm almost a legitimate participant in the real world. But I'm not all that nervous - though my five-year plan is fuzzy, I'm weirdly at peace. Somehow, I think I'll know what to do when the time comes.

Long time, no type

I usually don't make official New Year's resolutions. Despite my penchant for to-do lists, I've always tried to live, love, and laugh with gusto every day - as opposed to being gung-ho for only the first two inspired weeks of each year.

Still, I promised myself that I'd make a few changes in 2010, as I began my last semester of college. I resolved to take more pictures and to write on my blog more often. (Will I ever be 21 in New York again? Nope. Better make sure I remember these moments, then.)

It's February 7th: I have no new photos on my Canon, and this is my first blog post of the new year. Womp, womp, womp.

But maybe - since I don't normally do this whole resolution shpiel - I can amend the rules? I loathe messing up; being late, spilling things, and disappointing people are all on the things-that-make-my-stomach-lurch list, and slacking on my resolutions is no exception. In the interest of avoiding stomach ulcers, and in the hopes of capturing the magic of my last 4 months as a co-ed, I'm calling for a do-over. Did I swing and miss? You bet. But I'm granting myself another metaphorical at-bat.

After all, January was pretty jam-packed with awesomeness. I love all of my classes, and I may actually complete my senior thesis (or, BLT, aka a Big Long Thing) on time and with some panache. I've celebrated good friends' birthdays, and I've gone on some ridiculously tasty food adventures in my neighborhood: Mercadito and Podunk are my current obsessions, albeit their guacamole and scones (respectively) are total opposites. I led the BC's campaign to help the people of Haiti, as if I needed another reminder of how incredible the Jewish community is. I've learned and laughed and loved a lot already.

Now I just have to remember to capture it all, to say cheese and to write witty banter, so that I can remember all of my silly young hi-jinks someday.

A New World

In less than two hours, it'll be 2010.

My Blackberry keeps buzzing with people's memories of where they were ten years ago; most of my friends' Facebook statuses are some variation of "Ten years ago, I was in middle school. Where did the time go? Holy crap."* What does that even mean, "Where did the time go?" Even if time could stand still, would we really want it to?

Ten years ago, I was 11 years old. I'm pretty sure that I spent New Year's Eve watching the ball drop in my pjs, cuddled up on the sofa - some things, apparently, never change. I was in 6th grade then; I loved ballet class, hated that I wasn't allowed to have a boyfriend, and desperately wanted to fit in. I had these ridiculous pants with a tiger's face silk-screened across the crotch, which I adored and wore at least once a month (probably didn't help to boost my coolness factor). I still liked math class then, since I hadn't met that beast otherwise known as geometry. I still told people that I wanted to be a pediatric cardiologist when I was 11...I didn't decide that journalism was a better choice (less blood involved, theoretically) until 7th grade. I liked roller skating, *NSYNC, and going to Creanies for a banana split with Mom when I got good grades. I went to bed by 10pm. I was a little girl still.

In the editor's letter of Glamour this month, readers were asked to think about when they were ten years old. What would we tell that young girl? Would she be proud of us? Well, I hope the girl that I was a decade ago would like the Rachel of 2010. I guess I'm finally "cool" now: I live in a studio in New York, I'm about to graduate college, I no longer have braces, and I am, in fact, allowed to have a boyfriend. I think my younger self would be proud of my dedication to community service, and she'd expect nothing less than my absolute devotion to Jewish student life on campus. She'd go nuts when she saw my armoire full of sparkly, shiny dresses. Most of all, though, the Rachel that I was ten years ago would be proudest of the woman that I am now, I think, because I'm happy. I have friends that make me laugh, parents that never seem to stop giving and caring and teaching, and a city that never ceases to amaze and amuse me.

So, here's to next year. Here's to more living, laughing, and loving. Here's to a decade of job-finding, reporting, and change; here's to another ten years of exploring my city. Here's to the weddings (And babies? Oh Lord.) that the next decade will bring, and here's to growing up without growing old. Here's to being happy. I hope time does anything but stand still.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

*(Mine, for the record, says "Rachel Slaff is ready for a new year, a new perspective, a new decade, a new journey...let's go, 2010.")

Seasons of love

I was almost home yesterday when I looked down and realized that the sidewalk was strewn with leaves. Weren't those still on trees the day before? When did it become autumn?

For that matter, when did I become a grown-up? I walked out of a rough meeting in the journalism department yesterday and somehow felt sure that my mom would be sitting in her red car waiting for me across the street - but then I realized that I haven't been in high school for four years. Mom still talks me down when I'm upset, of course, and Dad still helps me see things clearly (how does he always do that?). But I'm a not a little girl anymore. I have to solve my own problems. Actually, I've been so busy lately that I have to decide which problems are worth solving.

So, on my way home, I crunched through leaves and realized that I don't have time to be upset. I don't have the time to be anyone but myself, to do anything beyond what gives me glee, or to share my life with anyone but the people that make me happy. (Homework doesn't count, here - I read a book on the history of the color blue last week. Seriously, 200 pages on a color. It was ridiculous.) I looked up at the trees on 12th Street and realized that they'd changed colors without a fuss - no upset or tantrum, just a subtle shift from green to gold. They were different, sure, but they were still beautiful.

I went to rehearsal with my friends instead of pouting last night. We laughed and ate fake chicken nuggets (holla, Red Bamboo) and sang, and I decided to face whatever is in front of me without fear.

I have no idea what my future will be like. But I do know this: I'll be the best Rachel Liane that I can be. I'll be goofy, and sweet, and a little edgy; I'll write with wit and live with intention; I'll cherish sunshine and friendship. Seasons change. Leaves fall. I have no idea exactly when I grew up; no one hands you a manual and says, "Welcome to adulthood." (Wouldn't it be great if you got one of those car navigation ladies in your brain when you turned 21? "Turn left here." "In 2.3 miles, you should ask that guy out." "Pay your bills." That'd be swell.) Life, though, has granted me enough friendship and love to make it through.

That Girl Had Gumption

On my way to work the other day, there was a young woman lugging a suitcase down the stairs at the subway station. I paused, to give her some time to get down the stairs, and then moved past her on the platform -- that's when I noticed that she had a white cane. She was blind.

Immediately, I was impressed. I usually have trouble maneuvering my suitcase, and I can see! I watched in bewilderment, in awe, as she calmly rolled her suitcase onto the L train.

I sat down across from her, shaking my head in amazement. I'd been running a bit behind that morning (sleeping in is great, until you get up and still have to arrive at work at the same usual hour) and was perturbed when I left the house with my hair damp and my cuticles ragged. At least I had my sight! The effort and the patience that this young woman had exerted in order to ride the subway that morning was beyond my comprehension, and I was immediately humbled.

I studied her as the train zoomed past the Union Square stop. (At first, I was embarrassed to stare - but then I realized that she couldn't see me.) She wore a purple newsboy cap, with gold hoop earrings and a pink tee shirt. She had a whistle on a lanyard around her neck, alongside a laminated card...I leaned to the right a bit so that I could read it.

CAN YOU HELP ME CROSS THE STREET?
Tap me on the shoulder if you can help.
I am blind and deaf.

I gasped. Oh dear G-d. How was she not scared out of her mind, riding the subway without being able to see or hear? How did she know when to get off of the train? How could she walk down the sidewalk in New York without being hurt? What could her life possibly be like?

I closed my eyes, just for a moment, to try to comprehend what riding the subway would be like in total silence and darkness. It was terrifying.

I looked up, aching inside for her, and turned towards her once more. She didn't seem scared. She looked happy, even. She was holding on to the rail contentedly...and that's when I saw her hands.

They were covered in red. At first, I thought it was blood, and I panicked. I narrowed my eyes, as if I could zoom in on her hands like a camera lens, desperate to figure out what was wrong. The red seemed to start at her fingertips, and it was shiny, almost glittery.

That's when I realized: it was nail polish. The young woman had apparently attempted to paint her nails herself, and nail polish had ended up all over her hands.

It took a heck of a lot of willpower, especially considering that I hadn't had coffee yet, for me to not cry. It was all just too heartbreaking and adorable. This girl was obviously determined to not be hampered by her disabilities, however challenging. She got up this morning, and, yes, it took effort, but she still chose to look her best. She still was determined to follow her glee. She was going to ride the train and carry her own luggage and paint her nails -- and nothing was going to stop her. She was going to stride through the crowds at Penn Station, blindness and deafness be damned.

As I watched her walk off of the train, I thought, "That is quite possibly the bravest person that I will ever see in my life." That girl had gumption.


Last night, the rabbi asked, "How did you get here? The answer is up to you. You can say you took the L train. Or, you can think about how you got to this point in time, this train of thought, this comfort level...just think about how you got here and how you're going to get to wherever you're going next."

I grinned, and thought of the blind and deaf woman from the L train. Her answer, no doubt, would be fascinating.

How did I get here? Well, Rabbi, where shall I begin? I decided that I would live in New York City around the age of 5. I told my mother that I wanted to be a journalist, in the car en route to Hebrew school from an orthodontist appointment, in 8th grade. I sat in a Mexican restaurant on Waverly Place when I was 17, and had a panic attack because I was afraid that I would get in to Columbia early decision and not be able to attend NYU (I am, I do believe, the first child to hope and pray that they wouldn't get into an Ivy...).

I realized that Reform Judaism wasn't enough for me anymore about a year ago; I decided that keeping kosher, despite its illogical ways, rang true in November, and I was finally able to pray, at Conservative services, in January. I considered joining JDate yesterday.

It took 4 internships for me to decide that I want to have a career in women's service magazines. It took my parents about 2 years of college to convince me that graduate school might not be such a bad plan after all. It took me 2 weeks to learn how to do all of the functions on the color copier at Good Housekeeping.

And, now, I'm turning 21 on Thursday. I'm taking the GRE for the first time on September 14th. I'm still waiting for my lobster (see: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7WViFQiRgs0). I have a lot of traveling and writing and loving left to do; there are, undoubtedly, a lot more close calls and difficult decisions in my future.

How I got here is an amalgamation of hope and hard work and serendipity. Wherever I go next, I'd like to have the kind of bravery that a girl needs to paint her nails with her eyes closed.

I'm Leaving on a Jet Plane

When I told Dad that I was going on a trip to Kazakhstan, he was surprised -- until I said it was a service project. Social action is simply what I do: delivering Meals on Wheels in middle school, leading Interact in high school, volunteering at the HUC Soup Kitchen with Kesher, leading the social action component of Project FEED. I ran for Hillel president because I believe that we are all responsible for one another, because I feel obligated to give back.

I didn't think (as odd as it might sound) that this trip to Kazakhstan would be any different. It was volunteering, it was Jewish, it was peer-led -- of course I was going and of course I would have a great time.

I was excited to see new places and meet new people. I was terrified to try to keep kosher in Central Asia. I was thrilled to get the chance to do what I've always loved. But, community service is nothing new for me, so it didn't dawn on me that this trip would be anything out of the ordinary, beyond my bizarre destination.

I didn't expect my outlook to change. I've helped the elderly in the US so often -- I didn't realize that helping the elderly in Kazakhstan would affirm my commitment to doing what I can for others as never before. Volunteering used to be my norm, but now I know that my actions can be a way to reach, to strive, to go beyond what is expected. Scrubbing walls, smiling, and delivering meals took on a deeper meaning for me in Kazakhstan. I didn't just feel warm and fuzzy because I'd helped someone; I felt energized as I realized my own blessings. I felt truly connected to something holy as I realized how alike we all are. I felt as if I finally understood why it is better to give than to receive.

I went halfway around the world to discover that joy and humanity can be found anywhere. I spent 32 hours on airplanes to remember how much value one moment can have. I left what I've always known to revive the purpose of what I've been doing all along.

As Borat would say, I like.

Things I Learned Today

• Language barriers make me feel incredibly dumb. There is no doubt in my mind that the 2 Kazakhstani girls in my work group talked about me at lunch, and the phrase "stupid American" was used.
• I don't care if your country has oil; I don't care how big your nation is, or how corrupt your democracy is. If you cannot flush toilet paper in your toilets (hence the name of TP, no???), you're not exactly advanced in my eyes.
• Boys are ridiculous everywhere, and, somehow, awful come-ons are universal. The Kazakhstanis have a "dance party" every night; smoking and drinking is involved, so I politely decline. One of the boys just came into our cabin to recruit more people to join the party, and I told him that I was tired, so I wasn't going to go. His reply? "Do you know...massage? Is this right word? If tomorrow you cannot come to party because tired, I can massage." Either Jewish boys have some kind of inherent ego-inflater, or our AEPi guys are rubbing off on the Kazakhstani boys.
• Smoking is not good for you; Kazakhstanis do not understand this. In our 4 hour volunteer shift this morning, Ruslan had easily 15 cigarettes. James tried to explain what cancer is; I simply said that cigarettes will kill you (bluntness seems to work better when you're working with a very small common vocabulary set). Ruslan laughed, though, and explained to us stupid Americanskys that 3 or 4 cigarettes a day aren't so bad.

Gila gave us packets today during our group reflection; on the front was a quote from Pirkei Avot: "It is not your job to finish the task, but you are not free to desist from it." Thank you, G-d, for lightbulb moments.

Earlier today, Ruslan asked James and I why we were here...volunteering isn't popular in Kazakhstan, he scoffed, because you should take care of yourself first. I mumbled something about needing to give before you can take, and marched angrily up the stairs of the apartment building that we were visiting. I was about to explode with frustration, with anger at my peers' selfishness, when I was handed a scrub brush and a bucket of soapy water.

"Spaseba," I said. Thank you. And I meant it.

I will scrub these walls until they shine like the top of the Chrysler Building. I will help this lonely old woman as best as I can, even if I don't speak Russian. I will try. I will work hard. I will keep kosher in this godforsaken land. I will hope, even if you give me every reason not to, thank you very much. I will pray and believe and struggle and challenge and yearn. I will love. I will care, no thanks to you.

Spaseba. Yeish tikvah.

Living the questions

A year ago, I went home for the 4th of July. We had a great time shopping, BBQing, and watching the Phillies, but I spent most of one evening sobbing about how much I hated my job. I interned for a Jewish non-profit last summer, so I spent my time sitting in an (almost) empty office, sifting through old camp newsletters. Actually - to be more precise - I spent my summer asking questions, and getting mad when I didn't like the answers that friends and family offered. Why I was stuck in a cubicle all by myself? Why didn't I love my summer job as much as everyone else did? What was I supposed to do with the rest of my life? Why didn't I know exactly where I'd be in 10 years?

Back then, I still thought of myself as a Reform Jew. I made the same mistake that I so often criticized more observant Jews for: I didn't question my world, my practice, my choices. I continued to do what I'd always done, despite my inner sea of uncertainty.

Life is different now.

I love my internship this summer. It is undoubtedly the biggest opportunity that I have ever been granted journalistically: I am challenged, as a researcher, a writer, an editor, and a team player, every single day. I don't leave my job wondering why I continue to shuffle into work every morning - I leave the office every evening excited for what the next day will assuredly bring. I help to create something that women look forward to each month, and I am part of a tradition, of a cultural mainstay, that has existed for over 100 years. It is thrilling (as one of my dear friends would say). And so, thank G-d, this summer, I did not have an emotional breakdown on the 4th of July. There were no questions wailed into pillows, no late-night movies interrupted by smeared mascara and unanswerable cosmic quandaries. Instead, I spent this Independence Day watching fireworks, snacking on picnic food, and thanking our forefathers for granting themselves and their posterity such a glorious 3-day weekend.

This 4th of July, I was at peace. I have figured out, at last, that Judaism is not something I "do;" it is who I am. So, now, I force myself to question what is meaningful for me. I have to challenge what I know. I have to push my limits, and reach for new meaning, and grapple with this tradition that has been handed down to me. A great Jewish concert or a weekend reminiscent of campfire sing-a-longs might be spiritual for some people - but I've learned that sometimes I need a little silence in order to hear myself think. I sing at services, not to harmonize with instruments, but to offer up as sincere a prayer as I can. Being a Jew, as I've realized during this past year, means being part of a community that is larger than I can ever fathom - so I try my best to connect, through prayer, through thought, and throughout my life. Now, I ask questions, even if I can't find the answers. I like being ruffled from my complacency and seeing where it takes me.

That's the difference, I think, between me at 20 (well, almost) and me at 21 (okay, again, almost): I don't ignore the big questions naively anymore, but I don't waste my breath with the even bigger questions. I cannot possibly know what the future holds, but I'd like to think that I'll be better prepared for whatever comes my way if I'm able to wrestle with who I am and what I hold dear. So I wonder and argue and inquire. Que sera, sera.

My mom gave me a card almost 6 months ago; I kept it, even though the quote on the front was irksome to me at the time. (I wanted answers! I wanted things to be neatly resolved and folded up and put away.) ... The card makes more sense to me now:

"Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer..." (Rainer Maria Rilke)

Firsts and lasts

It's been raining all week; Mom always says good things happen on rainy days.

I'm almost a senior in college (only 2 more finals until it's official!), I start an amazing editorial internship in a few short weeks, and I've been blessed with a year full of life lessons, ups and downs, and lots of love. But that's not what the rain's been making me think about this week...the future is exciting, and the past year has been great, but I'm unable to look at things so concretely lately. Instead, I just keep wondering if the rain is washing away the old, cleansing our figurative slates or palettes or faces or whatever it is that you'd like to be symbolically refreshed. It's as if the rain is preparing us for something new, waking us up for whatever's about to happen. So many of my friends are graduating and moving on, and I can just feel my circle growing up, whether we like it or not.

This sounds so much more somber than I intended; I don't mean to say that we're all leaving or turning a new page too abruptly. I just have this feeling in my gut, an odd mix of excitement, joy, too much dessert, and contentment. I keep getting this lump in my throat, this knot in my chest, as I wander down the city streets...it's like I can feel the change coming. It's very close to that happy-bittersweet sensation you get when you hug family members who live far away, or when you watch a very small child learn something that you normally take for granted.

Something is going to happen, and it's thrilling and confusing and nerve-wracking and exhilarating all in one breath...or maybe it's just the humidity.